The Proclaimers

By Lee Clinton

The very rich can buy justice by paying for vengeance - A drunken dispute between two young cowboys ends in a violent death. What follows is a vengeful father's spiteful desire for retribution by making a public proclamation that he will pay $10,000 to any person who will give him justice. However, a jury has acquitted the young man who shot his son of any wrongdoing. The family attorney, who was tasked to raise the proclamation that seeks Biblical justice of an eye for an eye, is so horrified by this vindictive act that he takes it upon himself to save the father from his own despicable behaviour. He enlists the help of Walter Garfield - a man whom some would say is well past his prime. But while Walt may be getting a little old and more than a little cantankerous, he is still a man of the Old West. As the last days of the nineteenth century come to a close, maybe, just maybe, this old ex-marshal is the only one who can save the young cowboy from those who will kill on sight just to get their hands on the vast reward that is on offer by proclamation -

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Hale Fiction
• Release date: Apr 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780719822940

Lee Clinton

Lee Clinton is the pen name of Leigh Alver, a hobby writer from Perth, Australia. Leigh has written and published in other genres, but a love for the Western remains unbridled – believing that it allows for universal stories to be told in a variety of ways, which will still engage, excite and surprise a modern reader. Coyote is the seventh Black Horse Western to be published since 2011.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A Squeeze of a Trigger

In a thunderclap of sound a shot is fired to explode and propel a small lead bullet, no bigger than the tip of a woman’s finger, down a short spiralled barrel towards its target. The projectile is shot from a polished brass case locked within a revolving steel chamber and accelerates to a speed of close to 1,000 feet per second, spinning straight and level. It is a once only flight that will last no more than a second. A journey of physical practicality – no moral conscience here, no hate, no thought of retribution or vengeance. Such emotions belong to the firer, the one who pulls, jerks or deliberately and slowly squeezes the trigger. But now unleashed, that shot cannot be recalled and it will strike whatever lies in its deadly path. If it punches into the smooth rounded bone of the skull to enter into the soft grey centre of the brain, then death will be almost instantaneous. If it strikes a limb it will tear flesh, shatter bone and pulverize muscle. If it thumps into the body, the chest or stomach, it will more than likely rip into a vital organ and cause immediate and immense bleeding. To the victim, the impact of such a wound to the body will feel like the steel punch of an invisible fist.

The first and immediate response to such a body blow is one of surprise, often accompanied by an expletive. It is a shocked and unbelieving curse, followed by the compulsion to examine the small round dark puncture that hides the mass of ruptured vessels, where pools of dark blood now begin to puddle, then flow from the entry and exit wounds like a leaking tap.

The body reacts with instinct in order to survive, by redirecting blood from other parts to rush to the wound in a futile effort to help. Shock quickly follows as blood drains from the limbs and face, turning the skin to a pallid ashen colour and the lips to a purple hue. A mantle of icy-cold descends over the poor unfortunate as his lips begin to quiver then tremble uncontrollably. The loss of blood makes death inevitable, but there is no immediate haste to that final crossing. The brain, now in a state of severe shock, spins uncontrollably back through a lifetime of memories, to be followed by a calm that is mixed with a terrible feeling of futility and loneliness. The final words spill from the lips of the dying and it is inevitably a call for a mother.

So it was for the young man who lay upon the rough timber floor of the Silver Eagle Saloon, his head close to the spittoon and brass bar rail, surrounded by onlookers who would remember this day; this scene; this moment for a lifetime. Before them lay the consequence and waste of a brief dispute, too much liquor and the deadly exchange of gunfire.

‘Get the town doctor,’ comes the call from one of the onlookers.

‘No need,’ is the reply from the old man who is leaning in close to hear the dying man’s final words. ‘He’s gone,’ he says. ‘Get the undertaker instead.’

CHAPTER 2

Modern Times

The sheriff had a splitting headache and the piercing ring of the double brass bell upon the newly installed telephone hadn’t helped.

‘Do you want me to go?’ The deputy knew the sheriff was suffering. He’d seen it before. ‘I can look after this one.’

‘No. It’s a killing. I better see, but I need you to come along and assist. You can then finish up any of the paperwork, because as soon as we are done I’m going to lie down.’

‘What do we need?’ asked the deputy.

‘A clear head,’ said the sheriff as he lifted his hat from the peg, ‘and a set of shackles. We may need to bring the shooter in if he hasn’t done a runner.’

‘Rifle?’

‘That too.’ The sheriff closed his eyes tight and willed his head to overcome the pain he was feeling just behind the eyes. But it didn’t work. ‘Daylight,’ he said as he opened his eyes.

‘What?’ said the deputy as he pulled the silver-grey handcuffs from the drawer below the rifle cabinet.

‘It’s still daylight,’ repeated the sheriff. ‘Haven’t had a killing in over two years and that was at night, late. This one was done in daylight.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘No, not really. But someone has the time and money to drink themselves silly during the day when they should be out working. So what does that mean?’

‘Lazy moneyed-up cowboys?’

‘You would think so.’

‘Sheriff Ireland,’ said the undertaker, nodding with deference to acknowledge the arrival of the law.

The sheriff nodded back. ‘Clem,’ he said, pushing his hat back a little to touch the left temple with two fingers, before looking around the bar at the patrons who stood in sombre silence. ‘You’ll get yourself a reputation beating the law to the body,’ he said softly, before addressing the small crowd. ‘Has anyone left? Done a runner?’

‘I’ve got a telephone now,’ whispered the undertaker. ‘Stan called me. Near rang it off the wall, he was so excited.’

The barman came out from behind the bar and towards the sheriff. ‘We’re all here, everyone who was in the bar when the shooting occurred. No one has left.’

Some heads in the crowd nodded in agreement.

‘Everyone? Including the shooter?’

‘Yes, he’s over there.’ The barman nodded towards a young man standing close to the end of the bar, erect with a glazed look of disbelief on his face.

‘The body?’

‘Still where it fell. He died real quick. Had just a few brief words. Looks like he was shot in the heart.’

‘Let’s take a look. After you, Clem. You come too, Stan.’

The undertaker led the way as the sheriff and the barman followed. The crowd parted, clearing a path to the feet of the deceased.

‘Name?’

The undertaker responded. ‘Tambling, so I’ve just been told.’

‘Age?’

‘Twenty-one,’ said the bartender, interjecting quickly.

The sheriff raised his eyes just a little. The face was that of a youth not much over eighteen.

‘Where is he from?’

There was silence.

‘Anyone?’ The sheriff made the call over his shoulder to the crowd of onlookers.

‘East. Pennsylvania.’

Sheriff Ireland turned to see a cowboy standing in the front row of onlookers, who was pulling a red bandanna from his neck. ‘And you?’

The young man now seemed reluctant to speak, hesitating until he finally stammered, ‘Jim, James, James Keap.’ He licked a dry bottom lip.

‘You know this man?’ The sheriff glanced down at the body.

‘Sort of. I met him last week. We are staying at the same boarding house. The Windsor on Efrin Street.’

‘Is Tambling his first or last name?’

‘Last. It’s Morris. Morris Tambling. Morris Wilfred Tambling.’

‘And you were here when it happened?’

‘Yes. Yes I was.’ The words didn’t come with any great conviction or enthusiasm.

‘You saw it happen?’

The cowboy nodded.

‘As a witness I will need you to make a statement.’

Keap, who was also not much over eighteen, nodded again slowly as he gazed at the body and continued to lick his bottom lip.

‘Were you two on your own or travelling with others when you came in here?’

‘No, just the two of us. Together. We came in around noon.’

‘Anyone else see this happen?’ The sheriff called to the small gathering.

Most raised their hands.

‘I’m only interested in those who actually saw the shooting first hand.’

Most of the arms lowered.

‘I will be taking witness statements and you may be required to testify in a court of law.’

All but two hands dropped quickly.

The sheriff looked at the volunteers. The first he knew, Harry Burrell, and was surprised to see him, as he was sure he was a pledge man. The second he also knew, but only by the nickname of Silver. He was an old miner who hung around the saloon chasing company and a free drink. ‘My deputy will see you both.’ He now turned to the lone cowboy standing by the bar with his gaze fixed upon the body. ‘Name?’

There was no answer.

‘Son? Son? Are you with me?’

The young cowboy’s lips started to move, but his gaze remained fixed on the dead body before he stammered out, ‘Jus . . . Jus . . . Justin Roy.’

‘The holstered gun on your hip, is that the gun you shot this man with?’

The cowboy’s body seemed to shudder as he took in a deep breath. ‘I didn’t mean this to happen. He’s still moving a little, I seen his hand move. Are you sure he’s dead?’

The sheriff ignored the confused and plaintive observation. ‘Your gun? Did you use the gun I can see holstered?’

The cowboy looked up, then moved his hand instinctively to his gun, grasping the grip in response to the sheriff’s request.

The onlookers, expecting him to draw, immediately reacted and stepped back as one, with some in the front row ducking their heads.

‘Don’t,’ said the sheriff, raising his hand as the deputy brought his Winchester to the shoulder and took aim at the cowboy. The sheriff glanced back at his deputy and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, then looked back towards the cowboy. ‘Just take your hand from your gun.’

The young man lifted his hand free.

‘Good. Now, is that the gun you used in the shooting?’

‘Yes.’ The pitch of his voice went a little higher and it was almost comical, but no one laughed.

‘OK, leave it holstered and keep your hands by your sides where I can see them. I’m going to take you into custody. My deputy and I will escort you back to the cells where you will be required to make a statement. You will be protected and fed while in detention. On the basis of your statement and the witness statements, I will determine what, if any, charges are to be laid. Do you understand?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘How old are you?

The barman went to speak for the cowboy, but the sheriff held his hand up to stop him.

The cowboy licked his lips. ‘Nineteen.’

The barman raised his eyes to the ceiling.

‘I’ll be getting a statement from you too, Stan,’ said the sheriff.

‘I swear I thought they were all twenty-one,’ said the barman in defence.

‘What I want from you is when they came in, what they drank, then what happened before, during and immediately after the shooting.’

‘Yes, Sheriff.’ The barman’s face showed his unease.

‘Mr Osborn?’

‘Yes, Sheriff,’ replied the undertaker.

‘Can you pronounce this man deceased? Officially?’

‘The physician will need to see the body and sign the certificate, officially. But he can do that at the mortuary, as all life has expired.’

The sheriff squatted down to peer closely at the body as he examined the wound to the upper chest, which was just a little left of centre. ‘I would like a photograph taken before the body is removed. Can you arrange for that?’

‘It will be expensive,’ said the undertaker. ‘I know what Dobbs charges. It’s about the same as a studio portrait.’

‘We live in modern times and a photograph on paper will save me a of lot writing.’ The sheriff stood up slowly. ‘So, I want a picture taken before he is moved. Then, once removed I want all personal belongings collected and passed to my deputy.’

‘Of course,’ said the undertaker, now showing his agreement with the sheriff’s demands.

‘With a list.’

‘Of course, all will be itemized.’

‘OK, let’s get this under way. Justin Roy, I am now taking you into official custody for the suspected killing of. . . .’ The sheriff paused and looked at the undertaker.

The undertaker responded on cue. ‘Morris Wilfred Tambling,’ he said.

‘Morris Wilfred Tambling,’ repeated the sheriff. ‘You will be required to assist in our enquiries and give a truthful account of all happenings. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The cowboy’s voice was soft and compliant.

‘Good.’ The sheriff turned to his deputy as he rubbed two fingers against his left temple. ‘Cuff him up, Jim.’

CHAPTER 3

Chattels

The sheriff’s head felt heavy but the headache was gone. ‘Is this all of it?’

The deputy looked over the shoulder of the sheriff at the assortment of personal items in the cardboard tray. ‘This is what was on him, in his pockets. Over by the counter is his belt, rifle, bedroll, saddle valise and two water canteens. His horse and saddle are being held at Spencer’s and we are now paying the livery bill.’

The sheriff picked up the handgun lying in the centre of the box. It was a Colt Frontier. ‘New,’ he said. ‘Not a mark on it.’ He weighed it in his hand. ‘Fine piece.’ He laid it back down and picked up the pocket watch. The name Morris Wilfred Tambling was engraved upon the silver cover in fine swirled lines. ‘Expensive.’

‘There was over a hundred and fifty dollars in his purse,’ said the deputy. ‘With that sort of money I guess you can afford to drink during the working week.’

‘I guess so.’ The sheriff pulled up a letter from the bottom of the tray. He turned it over. It was addressed to Lawyer Derrick W. Harris, Liberty Chambers, Wood Street, Pittsburgh. The writing was neat, upright and a little large for the envelope. He slipped his thumb under the flap, then withdrew the letter. It was a single page note to the lawyer from Tambling, requesting an advance on his monthly allowance as he planned to be travelling, and would not be able to get to a bank to draw funds on the first of next month. It was dated yesterday, the day of his death. ‘Has any next of kin come forward?’

‘No, not yet. And—’

The sheriff looked up, waiting for the deputy to continue.

‘And there is still no sign of Keap.’

‘No, I suspect that we won’t see him again.’

‘I, I—’

The sheriff knew what was coming. It was another apology from his deputy for letting Keap disappear before he could get a statement from the dead man’s travelling companion, so he stopped him